Lazy Parenting Fail

Okay, so.  THIS conversation is happening in my living room RIGHT NOW.

TB: Mom, why do we have to smell good??  (An obvious ploy to skip a shower)
Me: So girls will want to kiss on you.  (An obvious slackass parenting answer)
TB: No really. Why do we all have to smell good??  Why can’t we all just smell bad??
ME: You mean why can’t we all smell like ass??
TB: NO… Just… what if we all smelled bad?? Like, everybody. Then nobody would notice if you stunk.
ME: Because it would be nasty. And we would notice. There would be someone who smelled worse than everybody else. It would be asspocalypse. It would be cat-ass-trophic. It would be awful beyond imagining.
TWH: (Tiring of my slackass answers) It has almost NOTHING to do with whether or not you smell nice and EVERYTHING to do with health. If you’re a disgusting, filthy, smelly pig and you get a cut, it will get INFECTED. You could DIE. THAT’S why we bathe. Now go finish folding your clothes & go get a shower.

TWH is always so damn reasonable.

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The Universe Loves Me….

Okay, so.  I have mentioned before that the Universe loves me.  I occasionally get a free coffee at the drive thru “Just because” and it happens to be my favorite flavor.  Or, I’m stumbling through the Walgreens looking for some holiday Ziploc baggies and leave with a Leg Lamp.  Well, today was another exapmle. I went to the Post Office (which was, as usual, crowded as hell) to pick up a package. I see the loooonnnggg line, sigh in resignation, and take my place.  About a minute later, someone walks out of the back and asks if anyone has any certified mail they need to pick up. I start waving my little slip of paper around yelling “ME!! ME!!”.  I got my package, and happily left.

On to the pediatrician to pick up TB’s prescription. I walk in and there are NO cootie ridden children piled up in the waiting room.  Woo-Hoo!!  I only have to use half the amount of germ-x when I leave.

I go drop TB’s prescription off at the pharmacy and on my way home I see the WEENIE Mobile!!

I need to run errands more often.  This shit is awesome!!

I come home to open my package. Giggling all the way inside.  (Because in this package lives my AWESOME Parade Shoes)  I rip off the packaging, kick off my sandals…

And step in a puddle of dog pee.

Because while the Universe loves me, It also doesn’t want me getting too big for my britches.

P.S. I can’t get the photo of my AWESOME shoes to upload. Because I’m a techno-dork. I’ll upload one as soon as I can get TWH to help me.

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Say That Again…

Okay, so. Last night TWH & I were channel surfing when we landed on a show called “My Big Redneck Vacation”.   There were a bunch of people in an RV, being followed by a couple of pickup trucks & they were headed for the Hamptons.  Y’know, the Hamptons, where the wealthy go to relax in their summer homes & “get away”.  These folks were from Shreveport, Louisiana. About 40 minutes away from my tiny hometown of Minden, Louisiana.  They were doing us Louisiana natives proud, too.  At least two of the… shall we say… not tiny women made sure to pack a little black dress for going out. One of the ladies packed her two BEST going out clothes. A denim miniskirt AND a camouflage miniskirt!!  They were going to blend right in in the Hamptons.   Right before a commercial break, one of the women said “Y’all, what are we gonna do if they ain’t got a Wal-Mart??”.  High class all the way!!  That’s when TWH looks at me and says THIS: “Oh baby. You are such a redneck.”  This is the conversation that followed.

Me:  Um, WHAT??

TWH: You heard me. You’re a redneck.

Me: YOU are from the SAME town I grew up in. How is it I’M the only one who’s a redneck here??

TWH: I don’t know you just are.

Me: Shut the hell up!! If you say that again, Imma punch you in your throat!!

See, I am SO not a redneck.

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Why Is..?? Where Does….??

Okay, so.  There are things that are just NOT in my realm of question answering ability when it comes to TB. Either because I can’t keep a straight face or because I refuse to answer.

Tonight’s gem was brought on by my request that he do his laundry. He’s almost thirteen. He can start doing this shit.

“Do pajama pants count as regular clothes or underwear??  Speaking of underwear, why do they call it ‘Going Commando’ if you’re not wearing any??”

Can you tell TB may have a touch of ADHD??

That’s something that falls into TWH’s realm of expertise. Just like when TB asked about getting a stiffie.  I fled that one too.

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Dinner and Vampires

Okay, so.  I walk in to work this morning, get all my stuff arranged, and look up at the televisions on T’s side of the room to see Buffy the Vampire Slayer playing. The original movie, not the series (I am a fan of both, however).

Watching Pee-Wee Herman play in the role of flunky to a Vampire reminded me of the time the Ex and I went to see the play Dracula at a little dinner theater place not far from where we lived in Virginia.  This place was tiny, dark, & campy. The food was fair. I LOVED IT!!  My parents did community theater when I was a kid so I spent countless hours playing on, under, & behind a small stage. Not to mention running up & down the aisles & climbing over seats during rehearsals.

Anyway, you got your food before the play began and were well into your meal by the time the play started.  At intermission, the cast came off the stage and doubled as the waitstaff.

We got Renfield.

Yep, we got batshit crazy, bird & fly eating, servant of Dracula,  Renfield.  The thing about that was he was a REALLY GOOD Renfield. You totally bought that he was crazy & that he might really have flies in his pocket or something.  So while everyone else was THRILLED by having Mina, Van Helsing, Johnathan Harker, or even Dracula himself, us and the lucky attendees at about three other tables were somewhat mortified.

Needless to say, I didn’t touch my dessert or my refilled drink when the play resumed.

It was just too damn creepy.

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Jenny Lawson Made Me Ugly Cry

Okay, so. As many of you know, I religiously follow Jenny Lawson, also known as The Bloggess. This woman is Beyond Awesome.  She usually makes me cry. Tears of sheer, unadulterated Joy & Hilarity. She is the reason I have Gwenyth. She is part of the reason I even write this little blog. Today, she made me Ugly Cry.

Go to her blog, thebloggess.com, read the last two posts, “The Fight Goes On” from January 2nd and “Wow” from January 3rd. Go ahead, I’ll wait…  Okay. Done??  Good.  Now this subject is near & dear to my heart. My Mother suffers from the Lying Bastard known as Depression.  She has since I was a teenager. I can tell you, this fight affects EVERYONE. I can also tell you this, EVERYONE who loves you is willing to help you fight.  EVERY. DAMN. DAY.  There IS Help. There IS Hope. There IS Love.  No matter what form your battle takes. Get HELP. Have HOPE. Believe in LOVE.  Your Better Day may seem far off but is IS there. Waiting for you to get there.

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I’m About to Make My Mom Proud

Okay, so.  Every year, me,  my girlfriends & my Wife-in-Law (she’s married to my ex) load up to take ourselves to Jackson, Mississippi for a weekend to be a part of the World Famous Sweet Potato Queens Zippity Doo Dah (formerly the St. Paddy’s Day) Parade. This is a weekend where we don costumes, wigs, LOADS of sparkly jewelry and the biggest Tiaras we can find that we can fit into our budgets and PLAY. And we play HARD.  I have learned several things over these weekends but one of my all-time favorite things I have learned is the phrase “Eat Shit “.  I use it. A LOT. I also added AND DIE for good measure.  See, last year, I got pretty NOT sober at the ball.  I was not sober enough that I ended up doing drunken cartwheels and the splits in the hallway outside my room.  Somehow, we ended up with the photographer in tow and he took pictures of my drunk ass performing these feats.  He had them on display outside the breakfast room the next morning. I have to say, I looked WAY more awesome in my head. Kinda like those pictures on Pinterest. “This is how I think I look…”  My Mom would be so proud…   Anyways, during my drunken acrobatics, a small crowd had formed to witness my jackassery. We may have been a LITTLE loud. It may have been a LITTLE late.  So some woman opens her door and begins griping about the noise and could we keep it down because she had kids in her room who were trying to sleep.  My response went something along the lines of “Boy are YOU in the wrong hotel on the wrong weekend Sister!!”  Really, this Parade has been on the SAME weekend, in the SAME hotel FOR-EV-ER.  Okay, if I’d have been sober, I’d have (maybe) been nicer. But I wasn’t so there you are.  The next day, we were on the bus coming back from some event or other when the subject of the cranky woman came up.  Turns out, she’d been a pure-d Bitch the night before but I wasn’t really paying attention to the full rant.  Well, one of the ORIGINAL Wannabe Queens, Martha Jean Alford, (Whom I absolutely ADORE) was in the front of the bus. She turns around with her damn near six foot self in her Queenly shades and says “I just can’t believe she was so UGLY!!  Did you tell her to just EAT SHIT ??”  “No, but we sure wish we had!!” was our response.   Fast forward to that night. I am considerably more sober than the night before. I had washed my face, brushed my teeth, & donned my sock monkey pajamas when I pause, sit on the foot of my bed, look up at my Wife-in-Law (we shared a room last year) and say “Y’know what would be funny as HELL??  We go to Bitchy McBitchypants’ room, knock on her door, and when she answers say in unison “Martha Jean says to EAT SHIT!!  Goodnight!!”   My WIL said while it WOULD be funny, it might not be prudent so we just went on to bed.  She’s obviously the level headed one.  We will be headed to Jackson again this March. We have more wigs & more bling. Y’all should come play. You won’t regret it. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll do a couple of cartwheels for ya.

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